returning from a funeral---all neighbours too--stopt at his house,
"because they were in grief," to drink a drop. There was Andy Agar, a
stout, rattling fellow, the natural son of a gentleman residing near
there; Jack Shea, who was afterwards transported for running away with
Biddy Lawlor; Tim Cournane, who, by reason of being on his keeping,
was privileged to carry a gun; Owen Connor, a march-of-intellect
man, who wished to enlighten proctors by making them swallow their
processes; and a number of other "good boys." The night began to "rain
cats and dogs," and there was no stirring out; so the cards were
called for, a roaring fire was made down, and the whisky and ale began
to flow. After due observation, and several experiments, a space large
enough for the big table, and free from the drop down, was discovered.
Here six persons, including Andy, Jack, Tim--with his gun between his
legs--and Owen, sat to play for a pig's head, of which the living
owner, in the parlour below, testified, by frequent grunts, his
displeasure at this unceremonious disposal of his property.

Card-playing is very thirsty, and the boys were anxious to keep out
the wet; so that long before the pig's head was decided, a messenger
had been dispatched several times to Killarney, a distance of four
English miles, for a pint of whisky each time. The ale also went
merrily round, until most of the men were quite stupid, their faces
swoln, and their eyes red and heavy. The contest at length was
decided; but a quarrel about the skill of the respective parties
succeeded, and threatened broken heads at one time. At last Jack Shea
swore they must have something to eat;----him but he was starved with
drink, and he must get some rashers somewhere or other. Every one
declared the same; and Paddy was ordered to cook some _griskins_
forthwith. Paddy was completely nonplussed:--all the provisions were
gone, and yet his guests were not to be trifled with. He made a